


La Chasse

by atavistique (Rivers)



Category: The Tudors
Genre: Alternate History, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Frottage, Gen, Hand Jobs, Historical, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivers/pseuds/atavistique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A king never asks, he just takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fait accompli

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epistolic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epistolic/gifts).



> Set during the reign of Henry VIII, indirect aftermath of Anne Boleyn’s first miscarriage. 
> 
> A kind of mash-up-verse of BBC2’s The Tudors and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. Basically, I borrowed some phrases from the book and softened the characterisations used in the TV show. 
> 
> As far as physical appearance is concerned, however, the Henry and Thomas in this fic are the incarnations provided by the excellent Jonathon Rhys Meyers and the beautiful James Frain from the television series. Neither the show nor the book belongs to me. I greatly encourage you to watch & read both.
> 
> Also a disclaimer about historical accuracy: I took some liberties in changing people’s ages and ascent to certain offices, as well as in the interpretation of social/political context. To any historians out there - forgive me.
> 
> A birthday fic for epistolic, who saw me safe up into this fandom, whereby I shall now shift for myself coming down (to earth about my abilities in writing historical fiction). 
> 
> If any readers got that reference, you are awesome.

 

 

Prologue: England, 1535.

It is one of those days when almost everything seems a distraction. The grandeur of the palace is dingy, artificial, in comparison to the butter-yellow sunlight on the gardens beyond the walls. He could hear women’s laughter from yonder, and the breeze that sweeps through the leaves, and in his mind’s eye he could see the scattering petals everywhere, landing in the porphyry fountain and making ripples in the reflected sky. It is always the same petals, always the same scudding clouds. It’s a scene he has seen again and again, every Spring since boyhood.

“- Your Majesty?”

Henry heaves a little jolt. The Lords of the Privy Council are all staring at him in consternation.

“Is Your Majesty feeling unwell? Shall I send for a physician?” Cromwell’s eyes, pale and sombre, glint at him. His eye-lashes are a dusty brown in natural light. Henry files this information away in his brain, for reasons he knows not what.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just – stuffy in this goddamned room,” he snaps, flustered.

But Cromwell is already opening the windows. The scent of the last of the bergamot drifts in, mixed with the smell of freshly-sprung grass and dew-soaked soil, and it’s like his entire body breathes a collective sigh.

“Thank you,” he says unconsciously, a little mortified, and not a little irritated that he is mortified.

The secretary inclines his head in acknowledgment, and turns around to address the rest of the Council, “Since His Majesty has now returned to us, shall we turn our attention to the next Bill upon the agenda –“

Cromwell has his back turned towards him. The loss of his attention is suddenly unbearable; Henry cannot condone those eyes fixing upon the doddering idiots of his Council, dismissing his presence as if he were merely a misbehaving school-boy.

Inexplicably, he is seized by the image of his own hand fisting in the dark curls and pulling violently, to see the muscles of that throat pulled taut. Something dark and irrefutable unfurls at the pit of his stomach. He wants to shatter the man’s composure and restraint; wants to utterly ruin the unflappability of his demeanour; wants to see that glib mouth speechless, gasping. And those eyes, those eyes, attending _only to him_.

He wants it the way he wanted to destroy Arthur’s prize for winning the joust between them; he wants it as he wants the first blood of a wild hunt. The yearning is in the tide of his breath and the marrow of this thoughts. It is wrong. It is perverse. It is all he can think of. He _must_ have it. 

Cromwell chooses to look towards the king the exact moment a grimace plasters itself over his face. The Master Secretary frowns. Nevertheless the passion recedes a little, and Henry realises his fists are clenched and his mouth dry. He wills himself into better control.

“Your Majes –“

Henry licks his lips; it’s more of a threat than a hint.                         

Cromwell stutters to halt, then swallows visibly, and clears his throat.

 “Your Majesty,” his secretary says warily, “If I may, I have heard that sometimes, when one finds it difficult to apply oneself, it is beneficial to engage in some exercise. In the meantime there is very little to be gained by forcing oneself onto a task, when the mind is being... uncooperative.”

His hands, struggling to relax, twitch of their own accord, but he manages to force his expression to open. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Cromwell. Gentlemen, we shall adjourn our meeting until next week. Mr. Cromwell, I would have you stay behind. We have other matters to discuss in private.”

The Lords scrape their chairs on the floorboard as they bow and trundle towards the door. 

“Mr. Cromwell.”

“Your Majesty?”

He is gratified to see Cromwell perspiring slightly. “May I address you – Thomas?”

Cromwell blinks and shuffles in his robes a little, his ruffled curls shifting with his bow. “As it pleases Your Majesty, Sir.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Do you love me, Thomas?”

He answers with unerring precision, as if he’s practised it to a mirror every morning, after his prayers. “Yes, Your Majesty. As your loyal and humble servant, wholeheartedly and without question. As I love England Herself.”

“Apparently,” Henry says slowly, grappling with the voice urging him to shove his secretary against a wall, “Since your appointment, you have anticipated my every wish, sometimes even before I am aware of them myself, and advanced them with every gesture.”

“Your Majesty is too kind. I have merely done my job to the best of my ability.” More formality. Oh, how he craves to break him.

 “Tell me, Thomas. Would you submit to my _every_ wish?”

“As a matter of course –“

“Even if it may compromise your own comfort?”

“Physical comfort means very little to me, Your Majesty. It is the comfort of the spirit that one such as myself yearns for.”

The king hums pensively, a bejewelled finger tracing his lips, shards of red from the rubies reflecting in his eyes. He could almost _see_ the well-oiled contraptions of Cromwell’s mind churning, trying to gauge Henry’s purpose. This was new; the man was usually unsettling perceptive. Henry had expected him to be cognizant of his intention three questions into this conversation.

Thomas’ face is impassive as always, courteous, careful. But beneath that schooled expression there is a hint of unguarded bewilderment, like a girl being flattered by a man for the first time. No, the debrief can wait. This has potential be far better sport than that.

At last Henry smiles, all teeth. “Thank-you, Mr. Cromwell. I have detained you past dinner-time; you may leave now, and inform the groom to ready the horses in an hour.”

Thomas bows again, sweeps out the door, and almost walks bodily into a lady-in-waiting outside, apparently expecting the king’s audience.

“Sir, I’m sorry, sir,” he hears her stammer. Thomas gives her a curt nod and walks, robes billowing.

“What is it?” he pulls on his gloves, impatient for a ride.

The maid’s eyes are bright and her body tremulous. “It’s the Queen Anne, Your Majesty.”

He is only half attending to the woman’s speech; his mind is still fixed upon a dark and distant fantasy.

Then his world trembles.   


	2. cri du coeur

Thomas flips a page of his book, realises he hadn’t absorbed a word of it, and flips back, exhaling heavily.

The candle gutters in a short gust of wind, breaking his concentration. His mind turns over the afternoon’s conversation again, a child examining a curious seashell. It was a strange matter indeed; and the more he thought of it, the more the implications troubled him. In fact if he didn’t know better, he would be inclined to think –

But it is over now, for a while at least. Between the Queen’s miscarriage and the Reformation, the king should be in no mood and have no time for trifles or whims.

He tries to begin the passage anew, but is waylaid once more by his thoughts.

 _Hypothetically_ , the homunculus in his mind chirps, _hypothetically, if he does, would you?_

The theological supplication: The church will damn him to burn in Purgatory ( _tell me where it says in the Holy Book, “Purgatory”?_ ), they will say that God Himself will rain sulphur and fire upon him for these thoughts ( _lesson: do not make prophecies that will not come true_ ). Here is a reason it is the New Testament that he has learnt by heart – he simply has no use for tedious, context-derived laws the Hebrews imposed upon themselves in the guise of godliness. _Now abideth faith, hope and love, even those three; but the greatest of these is love_ , Tyndale says.

In Sussex, it is told that a vicar had been publicly lynched for buggery. They say that the holes in his corpse became so noxious with the filth that ran through his veins, not even Beelzebub would near him.

But if any of the rumours at court are true, it is the indiscretion that is the sin, not the act itself. It is then a question of social impeachment, not a religious one.

In any case, the king is the king, so in all practicality the choice has been made for him. But _supposing_ Henry did, and he _was_ given the choice – as far as his own conscience was concerned –

He tries to imagine what it would be like, being taken by the king, rough beard mediating his kisses, strong, flat muscles under his fingers in the absence of breasts, and the absolute _maleness_ betwixt his thighs.

He can’t.

His breath is short and his temples throbbing. Checking the time, he finds it is almost three. Perhaps he should go home, though the prospect of facing an empty house and a bed haunted by past warmth is not appealing.

The door swings open at that moment. He is immediately on guard as he rises to his feet, nimble and soundless as a cat.

“Cromwell? Is that you, dratted imbecile?”

 _Ah, so it is back to “Cromwell” and “imbecile”_ , he thinks wryly, _all is well_.

The dim light reveals King Henry’s visage, florid and unfocused. He reeks strongly of spirits, and Thomas only barely manages to catch his elbow before the king’s knees buckle, only to have it snatched away with a low growl.

“I am a king. God Himself ordained me. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“ _Stop calling me that_!”

Thomas finds himself more baffled than intimidated; perhaps he somehow conveys this in his silence, because Henry runs a hand across his brow, a dizzy shrug.

“No. No, that is not right. I came – I came to find More. He said he would be here, looking for account-books,” the king murmurs.

“Sir Thomas is no longer in court, Your Ma- Sir,” he says, gently.

Henry stares at him like he’s never seen him before, despite Thomas having done everything, save handing him the diaper-cloth in the privy chamber, at his side for five years. His voice is suddenly brittle. “Cromwell, why are you still here? Don’t you have a wife to attend to?”

“No, sir.”

“Lies. Liar. You told me you had a wife and son.”

“I did. She passed away, and two daughters.”

“Ah.” Henry seems to sober. Perhaps only death can make him react like a human being. “Is that why you always wear black?”

Thomas opens his mouth, and closes it resolutely. The man is drunk, he tells himself.

“No matter, no matter. I s’pose tonight, us mourners must keep vigil together.”

“I am sorry to hear of your loss.”

Henry draws a shuddering breath, and sits on a corner of the desk.

 “Everyone is, always sorry. But not even you, Cromwell, can imagine what it is like to be king, and to have lost a potential heir. And if you do not know what it is like, how can you be sorry.”

Thomas is at a loss at what to say, and settles for making an indiscriminate noise between a sigh and a hum. The king will likely forget the night’s happenings by daybreak anyhow.

“Tell me about your family, Cromwell. I am tired; I wish no longer to think of my duties tonight. Tell me about your wife.”

Thusly Liz is resurrected before his mind’s eye; her flaxen hair, her pale, bright eyes. Her hands are soft upon her prayer-book, but her soul is welded with iron and steel. Her voice is sweet and low, but her words could reduce a swarthy butcher’s son to tears for delivering a bad loin of pork. He remembers when she held Grace against her breast and sang, a ditty meant for infant’s ears alone. When she died of the sweating sickness, he had buried himself in his work, until his daughters were claimed by the same Reaper.

Sometimes, it feels like his life is built on corpses. Death upon death piled under his feet, a pedestal swaying in the wind, and growing higher still. But their sacrifice will not be wasted. Here, now, he has a job to do, a purpose to fulfill.

With some reluctance, he makes ready to spin a few words about her beauty and her untimely death. He does not realise how much he had spoken, until he stops with some alarm at how much he had unwittingly revealed. His legs are stiff from standing.

Henry is looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes, his sharp gaze now a low, glazed glow. He appears half-asleep. Thomas is glad; perhaps the king will fall asleep and remember none of it.

“Sir, if you are ready for bed, would you like me to call your men?” Thomas moves forward in case Henry topples over; it would not do to have the king injured in his presence.

“Do you miss her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your wife. Mary? Alice? - Elizabeth. Do you miss her? And your children?”

“It was a long time ago, sir.” He does not speak of how, every once in a while, he sees a flash of white and thinks it’s Liz’s cap, she’s come back from the market, she’ll deposit her purchases on the sideboard, and will presently come and peck him on the cheek.

He despises men who deal with phantoms and ghosts.

Henry nods. He leans forward, as if to slide off his seat, and Thomas bends to aid him, an arm slipping easily under the king’s shoulders. For once the monarch does not protest; instead he looks up and directly into Cromwell’s eyes, then flits to his lips, and back again. The lines of his face speak of weariness and need. Their faces are inches apart.

Thomas thinks, if he kisses me, I shall not fight it.

Henry slips out of his arms. And there, it is gone. “Good-night, Mr. Cromwell.”

“Good-night, Your Majesty,” he bows.

And Henry is away to his chambers, as if nothing had passed between them.

Thomas, on the other hand, spends the night utterly sleepless, his knuckles brushing against his lips, eyes slitted in thought.


	3. cause célèbre

The days walk past Lent and into Good Friday at a leisurely pace, but it seems the heavens would never cease in their rationing of sunlight, the rains falling continuously like one whole length of watery satin. Henry is restless in his study, his mind yet besieged by the phantoms of the lost child and his lost mentor. Anne has been prescribed bed rest and peace in seclusion for a month; Charles is in France negotiating with King Francis; none of the ladies in court rouse his interest; and hunting is not a possibility. He is in no mood for work or prayer, and no amusements would be appropriate until Sunday. Bored and desolate, he aims his solitary tennis-ball at the map of Europe on his wall.

Something shifts in the shadows.

“Your Majesty.” It is Cromwell, his eyes a murky cerulean in the ochre light of his beeswax candles. He wonders if Thomas would abide being painted by Holbein. They would probably have to box him in with tables and chairs to stop him from rising and walking about, always restless for work*.

 “God’s graces, my good man. Do you make a habit of appearing out of thin air? Come closer, so I may see your face.”

The secretary moves forward, the corner of his lips quirking almost imperceptibly. “I am present wherever I am needed, Your Majesty.”

Henry snorts. “That would only be possible if you were the Almighty.” He reaches out, closes his fist over the man’s sleeve, tugs him even closer. The fabric is damp under his palm. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment too long, the only sound being the howl of wind and the rattling of the windows. His mind wanders to the night prior: the story, a strong arm under his own, the shared look. Perhaps it was not imagined, the fevered dream of the heartbroken and intoxicated, after all.

Somewhere in the distance, a door slams in a corridor.

Thomas breaks the moment, inquiring, “May I ask for what purpose did you summon me, Your Majesty?”

He lets go of the man’s clothing, settling back into his seat. Should he tell him now? Not yet, perhaps. He is enjoying himself rather, to be for once the man behind the plot and not the one kept from it. “This Sunday. We shall have festivities for Easter, after Mass of course. I would have you join us in the banquet.”

“I shall be delighted.” Short but sweet.

Then again, Cromwell is the type of man who is loquacious only when he intends to befuddle. He chooses his words, turns them over in his mind, and slots them into his sling, a veritable David against his opponents – _thuck_ , precisely between the eyes.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” he looks bemused, as if he expected more.

“Yes. You may go.”

Henry bites his tongue to keep from commenting as his gaze lingers on the retreating form of his secretary, lithe limbs darting from under the loose cape. So poised, so graceful. He wonders idly how fragile the shell is, how far he would have to twist to make it snap. Yes, he knows he can have his legate pinned beneath him with a word, or even a wink to his groom - but oh, the game has just started.

He dusts himself off and checks his hair in the mirror, meaning to get ready for court. People stroll past his door, ladies and lords and servants, alone, in conversation, carrying documents or amenities. Little people in their little worlds – how he envies them sometimes, knowing not all the treasure in the kingdom could buy him that hearthside comfort only the commons can afford. A regular job, in which he could be content, and the making or marring of a nation does not hang upon his every thought. A simple, warm meal; a kiss with the wife – _Come to bed_ , she will say - tucking their sons into their cot; their dreamless sleep.

A young man has halted in the doorway, catching his eye in the mirror. He has the same guarded stare as his master.

“Ah, Mr.Sadler*, there you are. Mr. Cromwell has just left. Come in presently.”

“Rafe, please, Your Majesty,” he inclines smartly, “At your service.”

Henry smiles, liking this youth already. He is bird-eyed and cat-footed, his demeanour understated and reserved, as though he is ready at a moment’s notice to melt into the shadows, watching, observing, without being found. Precisely the type of person who may have the information he needs.

“Rafe, then. Tell me, how long have you known the Master Secretary?”

“Since childhood, Your Majesty. I will forever be indebted to my lord Cromwell for his kindness and generosity.”

Henry nods, humming. “I hear his wife passed away.”

“Yes, that was some years ago. Before he became a courtier, Your Majesty.”

“Has he, have you perceived any plans to remarry?”

“None that I am aware of.”

“No girl or woman has caught his eye? No distant relative who wishes to marry into good fortune?”

“No, Your Majesty – he lives the life of a monk, or so the servants say.”

Henry nods again and falls silent, pondering upon how to frame his next question.

“Has he... any gentlemen acquaintances?” his voice is quiet in the room. The table is dusty; he must demand higher diligence from his servants.

Rafe gives him a look, startled, which then turns to understanding with alacrity. Henry’s hands grip the back of a chair with perhaps more force than called for.

“No, Your Majesty. Not in the... implied sense of the word.”

“Thank you, Rafe. I trust I do not need to remind you that this communication is to remain strictly between us.”

The man bows. He does not smile; his face betrays nothing. He has learnt well from his master. Henry decides to remember Rafe Sadler; he may yet prove to be of use in other matters.

The rain continues to patter an insistent rhythm on the windows.

+++

He arrives late. The party is already in full swing, the hall alive with merriment. The faces are giddy and flushed in the blazing lights, tables creaking under the weight of succulent dishes; there is music, and dancing, laughter and boisterous tales, and heaving bosoms spilling over extravagant bodices.

Thomas looks around and finds no one he recognizes at first glance, but it turns out there is no need to mingle, for the king catches his eye and beckons him to the high table. He is surprised to find Henry has not busied himself with a female acquaintance, but is instead seated directly next to a few clerics and lords.

He has managed to cross the room halfway when he is accosted by the daughter of some Earl.

“Master Secretary, I believe,” she says, curtseying. He bows back instinctively.

“Yes. And you are Madame -?”

“Just Blanche, please, Mr. Cromwell,” she smiles, dimples showing. Her blond curls fall over the shoulders of her blue damask gown. She looks like a creature out of a fairy-tale. Perhaps she noticed him staring, because her face splits into a smile again, full of youth and mischief _. By Mary’s grace, she cannot be a day over seventeen._

“I’m afraid I must not linger, Lady Blanche – “ he darts a glance at Henry, who looks as if he would be ready to wring someone’s neck soon.

“Oh, you are always business, Mr. Cromwell,” she laughs prettily, “My father oft speaks of you –“

“Excuse me, my lady,” Henry has appeared next to her. His face is mild, but his grip on Thomas’ shoulder is exceedingly firm. “I must apologize, but I am in urgent need of my secretary. If you don’t mind?”

The girl nods, silently shaken, and Thomas allows himself to be steered away and towards the king’s table.

“Your Majesty –“

“Flirt with that woman again, Cromwell, and I will send you her pretty head in a box,” the king pushes him into a chair, and he sits, stunned by the display of emotionality on Henry’s face. It was only there for a minute; if it hadn’t been for his earlier suspicions, he would have missed it entirely. He could perceive the king consciously wrenching himself back from the brink of some irretrievable act and arrange his face into neutrality, but he had seen enough.

It is suddenly painstakingly clear where he stands.

He is in a daze when the dishes are cleared away and dark, sweet wine brought in with the excuse of developing the palate. He takes a cup and sips, allowing the warmth to spread in his viscera and relieve some of the nervous tension.

He is still pondering on his options, when the conversation takes a dramatic and unwelcome turn. 

“ – His Holiness cannot abide – “

“ – excommunication an imminent –“

A vein throbs worryingly in Henry’s neck.

“Gentlemen,” Thomas interrupts, solicitous, his mind working furiously through the alcohol haze, “We have agreed, many weeks prior, that the hand of Rome has no place in English affairs. Though I hear your hand, Your Eminence, will be most welcome in the gardens of the diocese of Rochester.”

The idiot cardinal splutters and colours with rage, then flinches from his stare like a kicked dog. He continues, “There are far more pressing matters at hand, namely –“

Cromwell breaks off and stares at the hand lingering on his wrist. Henry looks at him steadily without withdrawing it. “Pray continue, Mr. Secretary.”

“As I was saying, in order to promote public knowledge of the corruption of the Catholic Church, we are obligated to –“

The king’s fingers are now at the nape of his neck, the mindless caress making the fine hairs stand up and proving most distracting.

“- _quod erat demonstrandum_ , the dissolution of the minor monasteries must require a investigation of such penetrating depth –“

Henry is rubbing his leg under the table. He touches just above the knee and nowhere else, but Thomas has to suppress a growl of frustration. _Porca troia*, does he think I am arguing this point for my own entertainment?_

The company starts to titter and share bemused glances. There is nothing for it, God save his soul.

“Your Majesty,” he forces a smile, “Perhaps you might care to share some of the correspondences received from your investigators, about the state of corruption and debasement in the abbeys of Nottingham?”

“But those investigations concluded last month,” Henry replies, mystified.

“Yes, but I fear some present may not have received the message.”

The king watches him fixedly, the corners of his mouth turning downwards in a most ominous manner. Nevertheless he also removes his hand, slowly, from Thomas’ lap, much to the secretary’s relief.

The debate and feast ends with many a sated sigh and cracking of joints as the drunken company disperses. Couples take their leave, arm in arm, while Thomas Wyatt snores gently in his seat, face landed sideways in some pudding.

Blessedly the rains have also stopped, and the stars are bright and clear in the firmament, Mercury and Pluto side by side. The storm has wiped the air clean and cool; perhaps there could be a hunt or tournament to-morrow, to lift the king’s spirits.

Thomas stands, groaning as his legs and backside protest from disuse. Bed would be a most welcome place.

He only has a moment to realise that he is still in the king’s presence before he finds himself shoved violently into a stone wall, his leg catching the side of a chair, sending twinges of numbness and pain through his thigh.

“Your–? “ The king presses his forearm against his windpipe, making it difficult to breathe; he fights panic and tries his best to stay still. _As long as I am still, it would only last for as long as necessary_.

“How _dare_ you presume to tell me what to do?” Henry snarls, nostrils flaring. He looks half-mad with fury. “In _public company_! Who do you think you are? Just because you wear a chain of office, do you think yourself so indispensable that I would even hesitate for one _second_ to have you _hanged_ on that same chain?”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he chokes, “If I have offended Your Majesty in anyway, -” he gasps as Henry tugs at his hair, slamming the back of his skull against the wall. His vision swims; but even as his head is pulled painfully back, the king’s breath harsh and hot on his exposed neck, he looks determinedly at the king, taking deep breaths, hoping his calm would be enough to convince this to _stop_.

Henry, however, only seems even further aroused. He flings a hard cuff across Cromwell’s head, sending it snapping sideways into the wall. Thomas feels his lip split and start bleeding.

“You have the _audacity_ to defy me? I could have you _whipped_ for that, and I have a good mind to do so.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Thomas says quietly, trying valiantly to stay limp.

“As well you should be. You- you are not even worthy of my touch,” the king spits, and shoves him away. It stings. Somehow, it stings worse than _Cromwell_ and _imbecile_ and _idiot servant_ and _lowlife_ and _smithy’s-rat_ and the small cuts on his cheek, bits of jagged skin peeling from the abrasion against sand and stone. “You are dismissed.”

Thomas bows, his back and shoulders aching from where they connected with the wall. He does not doubt that bruises are forming on his hip and leg even as he exits the room, eager to displace himself from the mercurial temper.

To his dismay, Henry calls him back once again. He braces himself for more abuse.

“If you cannot conduct yourself in a manner befitting of a courtier in public, Thomas, perhaps you would be inclined to do so facing me alone. Come to my chambers to-morrow night for your supper.”

He thinks of his friends. He thinks of the men of God. He thinks of More, directing them with questions and digging his claws into words forced from the rack.

What do you think the communion bread tastes of?

Why, b- bread.

So you think it is not the body of Christ.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he wills his heart to click in time with his mind, which supplies: people have tea with their breakfast, and beer with their bread, and the king shall have me with his supper, spread on the table in the manner of the feast yet sitting in their guests’ stomachs. He wonders if they will be alone, or if the other lords will be there, jowls wobbling and fat-slicked lips leering as they lick his bones and spit it out for the dogs.

_Thomas Cromwell, what have you become?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*Holbein did, in fact, paint Thomas Cromwell. You can see it here: http://uploads4.wikipaintings.org/images/hans-holbein-the-younger/portrait-of-thomas-cromwell.jpg  
> As you can observe, he was in fact boxed in with tables, as if to prevent him from leaping to his feet and going to work.  
> *Ralph “Rafe” Sadler: Thomas Cromwell’s ward and clerk, later made a gentleman of the Privy Chamber and, after Cromwell’s execution, Secretary of State to Henry VIII.  
> *Diocese of Rochester: The late Cardinal Fisher’s parish, known to be the poorest in England.  
> *Porca troia: Google tells me this means “fucking hell”. I apologise if this is a mistake; the amount of Italian I know is a factorial of zero (None!).]


	4. noblesse oblige

Henry had been in a foul mood the entire day; he smoulders still as he makes his way to the Privy Chamber. His servants try to hide their quaking as he strides in, deliberately knocking over objects and people in his way.

He curses to himself: he had not planned to break this early in the game. Though he supposes he was never good at chess, his temperament being more suited to activity. It unsettles him nonetheless that his mood would be so easily displaced: so Thomas has found himself a new woman; what is that to a king? 

He gives short instructions to lay the table for two, and waves all of them out of the apartment before he is inclined to beat them as well.

Sitting down heavily before the blazing fire, he takes off his cumbersome official garments and rings, leaving only his under-shirt, breeches and boots.

Thomas Cromwell had had the _gall_ to refuse him, that knave. Perhaps the man had grown a larger sense of importance than he could afford. No matter; it could easily be remedied. He would show that insufferable son of a blacksmith his rightful place – under and beneath his sovereign lord, and nowhere else. 

He has developed a sheen of sweat before the fire; swearing, he removes the undershirt as well, mopping his face with it, and makes toward the windows. The cool breeze is a welcome whisper against his agitated body, and his temper similarly simmers to a low, mournful wretchedness.

With a tall rush of guilt, he recalls his minister’s dark, smooth expression, his cheeks scratched and flushed, hair and clothes in disarray. Registers the insidious genius and unmalleable loyalty he has attempted to violate. _I should make amends to Cromwell_ , he muses, _I would not treat a Dublin scullery-maid* the way I treated him that night, God forgive me._

And yet – yet he cannot fathom why Cromwell still has not yielded. He has seduced, he has hinted, he has tormented. Surely his surrender of body and conceit cannot mean more than satisfying the king. If he were to pay the same attentions to any other woman – or man – they would no doubt be submitting themselves to him even now.

Sometimes, he thinks they are of the same mind. Sometimes he cannot understand his man at all.

There is a knock on the door. _And there he is, at exactly the correct moment as always_ , he gathers his thoughts. It is as if the stars had aligned for the man’s rise and success. “Enter.”

Cromwell steps inside. His hair looks slightly moist and he smells of Castile soap. His collar is pulled up even higher than usual, high enough to warrant further scrutiny.

Henry looks away when he spots the bruise underneath the fabric, stomach twisting, and leans his forehead against the cool glass.

“Pray take a seat, Mr. Cromwell.”

He hears a rustling of garments and presumes his minister has sat at the table.

“It behoves me, Mr. Cromwell, to regret my words and actions last evening. It was unprincely of me to act upon my more transient emotions. I trust there are no hard feelings between us, and before God.” Pride raises its hackles, stiff fur prickling at him like one of those horse-hair vests More and Fisher used to wear under their shirts. He growls back at it and it comes to heel, albeit reluctantly.

“No, of course, Your Majesty. You were most justified in your indignation. I will not offend you in this manner hence.”

The weight lessens somewhat from his heart. “That is very well. Shall we dine?”

With a snap of his fingers, his attendants begin laying food on the table; there is quail, and broiled buck’s meat on a bed of wine-soaked potpourri, and salted beef.

The smell whets his appetite. He abruptly remembers that Thomas had not eaten at the banquet. Another stab of guilt buries itself to the hilt.

Taking his place with Cromwell beside the fire, he picks up his cutlery and helps himself to some food. Thomas does not move, which prompts him to glance upwards.

His secretary looks taken aback. Too late, Henry notices he is half-naked and eating with the table-manners of a Hun. _Good Lord, what he must think of me_ , he chortles a little, to which Cromwell looks even further alarmed.

“Eat, Cromwell. You look half-starved. I will put on a tunic if it eases your mind.”

“No, no. Please, do not exert yourself on my behalf, Your Majesty,” the secretary averts his eyes and reaches to carefully place some meat on his plate.

It may be a trick of the firelight, but Henry perceives a slight rosiness about Cromwell’s cheeks.

 “Thomas,” he says, not unkindly, “Is the fire too warm? I can have it put down.”

Now there is a definite blush; it becomes his complexion well, making him look less dead on his feet and more like a man, one who has desires and weaknesses. And there is that hunger yet again, one that has nothing to do with food, expanding at the pit of his stomach, demanding to be fed.

But Thomas is speaking. “No, indeed, Your Majesty. In fact I am ashamed; I seem to be overdressed for the occasion.”

Henry looks at him, who stares directly back, blue eyes inscrutable, perplexing, before the king has his meaning.

“You may take off your cape.”

Long, pale fingers flit over the fastenings of cape and doublet, Thomas’ eyes never leaving his own. His breath hitches at the savage beauty of it. For a moment it seems, finally, that his man has caught on, and is playing his own game against him.

And then Cromwell nods at him, the items of clothing draped neatly over the arm of the chair. The cutlery clatters as he works methodically through his scant meal, his knife and fork working with the precision of a physician’s tools. Henry finds himself suddenly speechless, engrossed by the movement of collarbones just visible under the shirt, the hint of smooth chest at the dip of the collar. It is barely enough. He needs more, and he wants it _now_.

Cromwell’s eyelashes are a dark fan against his skin as he studiously applies himself to supper perfunctorily. He dares to dart quick, almost furtive glances at his table-mate, and hesitates when he sees Henry has not touched his own dish. “If Your Majesty would excuse me – “

“No,” he says, before the thought is even properly formed in his head. “You may certainly _not_ leave.”

In a trice he is on his feet, and reaches over the food to grasp Cromwell’s bare wrist and pull the man towards him.

“Your Majesty, I was not –“

“I am not dim-witted, Cromwell, and neither are you,” he hisses, taking hold of his minister’s narrow jaw between his fingers, “ _You know what I want_. Now tell me what _you_ want.”

+++

Dr Cranmer – Archbishop Cranmer – once informed him some years ago, amicably over a flagon of ale: “Cromwell, you know there are rumours that you have turned against your master, that you are now Norfolk’s man, and that under it all, you only truly serve yourself.”

It was not all true, of course: but the trap was set to be sprung on his former master, and he had no intention of being noble. Not Wolsey, nor any cardinal or mentor, was worth his life; only one man could demand that of him, and he told Cranmer so.

The scholar shook his head fondly, his cap sliding a little as he did so. “May he know and be thankful for that, my friend, and may the Lord keep you as he kept Daniel in the lion’s den, or when you are bound and cast into the fire.”

“I thank you for your concern,” he had said.

Cranmer said, curious, “You are a man of mysteries, Mr. Cromwell –And yet, ask anyone up and down Cheapside, and they can tell you are a mercenary and a businessman, and your loyalty could be bought with silver and gold. What has your country to give you in return for your heretic ideas?”

He replied, “If you ask Cheapside, they will also tell you Queen Anne has six fingers.”

And then, “The gold I take, because it is there to be taken.” – When you have lived hand to mouth for fifteen years, you would not see the point of begrudging yourself either – “Can a soldier and lawyer not yearn for good to come of this realm?”

In hindsight, he considers now, perhaps that is the same as asking for everything. Perhaps he should have known since the beginning that this is the path he would choose. Like that twelve-year-old boy with a cut on his forehead, scrapping at the quay with a boy five years his senior – oblivious to the smell of piss and brine and deaf to the ships’ bells and the harlots’ shrieks; seeing only his opponent, hearing only the thundering of blood in his ears – he is willing to do everything, anything, to be the last one left standing. It used to be thus, all teeth and claws, but now, older, he understands there are battles that must be won with things other than fists.

Henry’s eyes are pale, almost translucent, the colour of the dawn horizon on one of those a bitterly cold days in the plains of France. His grip has the strength of an instrument of torture (pliers, turning horseshoes on a forge - applied with the correct force, could extract a man’s fingernails), and grows ever more punishing with his impatience.

To him, Thomas says lightly, even as the cut on his lip reopens, willing the challenge into his eyes. “If you must claim me - take me, command me utterly as a king.”

Something precarious blazes in the king’s gaze, but his grasp lightens and Thomas pulls back, heart racing at the pace of a rabbit’s under the shadow of a falcon’s low-circling wings. Before he could step entirely out of reach, however, the king seizes the front of his shirt, drawing them almost chest-to-chest. He surges forward, bringing their lips together with amazing force.

The table, still laden with food, crashes to the floor utterly forgotten.

The kiss is like no kiss he had before. It is hard, vicious, electric, full of lust and dark passions. Unwillingly he is brought to a gasp at the sensation, and Henry wastes no time in taking this opportunity to slide his tongue against his secretary’s, fingers twisting in thin fabric. Heat travels through the pit of Thomas’ stomach and threatens to go lower, undercurrents of feeling tugging him under the waves, the shadows beckoning, seductive, an obsessive embrace folding around him.

 _And yet_ , another part of him says, critical, _and yet what good can come of this_. You are not a woman, you have no womb, you cannot hope to offer an heir. If this affair or any after this comes to light, God forbid, it will only do more damage to yourself than to Henry. Cut your losses, Thomas Cromwell.

He makes a pained noise and stumbles backward.

Henry merely looks at him, eyes dark and breathing heavily, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side.

“Tomorrow night. My bed, or the block on Tower Green* – take your pick.”

Thomas flees the room, tasting the blood from his own lip as he exits the Privy Chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*Dublin scullery-maid: Ireland had strong affiliations with Rome and was being used by Spain as a Catholic stronghold for rebellions against the Reformation. Historical records suggest Henry, or indeed the English in general, did not have the highest love or regard for the Irish, seeing them as traitors, troublemakers, and the Emperor’s/Catherine’s dogs, or “rude fellows” with inflated sense of self-importance, as Lord Anthony St. Ledger implied, 1547.
> 
> *Tower Green: As the name suggests, an empty space within the Tower of London, where political prisoners were held. The scaffold for executions was built on Tower Hill.]


	5. cherchons la femme

Thomas wakes without remembering having fallen asleep. There is some vague recollection of hearing the crow of a cockerel as he scrambled into bed, his mind a swirling chaos of thoughts and feelings he should not have, willing his flesh into submission as he fell into fitful slumber.

He remembers running in the darkness, his small, bare feet on dusty roads, a voice hitting him like a brick over the head. He remembers going into an alley, and facing the wall, the sky a thousand leagues above him and hell ten paces behind. It is a dream, he tells himself. And yet even as his feet touch the floor, the image of his executioner assaults his mind; blood gushes over his hands from the wound on his abdomen. He is pushed into the wall and pierced again, and again, the cruel little knife sliding neatly between his flesh; and his tongue is like a stone, lying at the floor of his mouth.

_A dream_ , he tells himself firmly, rising for his routine of morning toilet.

The night before returns in disjointed fragments. He remembers the king’s hand on his wrist. He looks down, and is not remotely surprised to see the purplish marks – neck, shoulder, hip, and wrist. He could be fifteen again, home late with his hands empty, to be knocked about the pate by his father.

When he emerges from his quarters, Rafe is already in the office, pacing as if he means to walk a trench into the hardwood. He wears the livery of a gentleman of the Privy Chamber, the Tudor Rose spread over his breast, a red-and-white stain of four layers. _Tu quoque, Brute, fili mi?_ * – But it is merely a convenient allusion. He is not angry, but chagrined, and perhaps a little proud.

Rafe’s first comment is, “You look terrible.” And then, “You are going to kill yourself.” His left eyelid is twitching, his face the colour of curdled milk. “Don’t do this.”

Thomas sighs. In Brière, there was a physician in his unit, a balding, nervous fellow, with rodent-like ears. One time Thomas had dislocated a shoulder in battle. The pain was terrible; he was but a lad of nineteen, and yet he bit his cheek and kept from squealing as cold sweat drenched his shirt; and together a few strong men pushed the bone back in its socket with a nauseating crunch. He was up and polishing his sword soon enough. The physician, however, swooned promptly after the procedure. Thomas left for Italy shortly and could not witness the fate of his fellows; and yet he is prepared to wager ten shillings the doctor was not seen amongst the men thereafter.

But Rafe is speaking again. He has tears in his eyes. He does not understand why Mr. Cromwell had to bring death into this; isn’t the defilement enough? – _But of course_ , Thomas thinks, if a French e’vry-man’s-strumpet could be restored a maid and put on the throne of England, a private discourse over supper could be heard and bandied about like a playbill. He wants to shake the boy: after seven years, has he learnt nothing of his methods, does he know nothing of what he holds dear?

“Mr. Sadler, I prithee not to be distressed on my behalf,” he says, “The king is kind. He will be my guide. And I am no virgin bride, to be fussed over and molly-coddled. And now, I have a day’s work ahead, and I dearly wish to complete it before the sun sets.”

“You are mad,” Rafe says, wringing his hands. “But I will leave you, as you wish.”

He does not say, God bless you. But what is there to bless about this rotting affair?

He reaches for a scroll upon his desk, and begins to read it, attempting to force the gnawing trepidation back into the recesses in favour of rationality, but Henry’s eyes burn in his mind as a tiger’s in the dark of a forest.

_Damnit,_ he admits in defeat, _I am afraid_. He does not want to imagine what he risks compromising, and what comes after losing impartiality. He dreads what Henry will think of him afterwards, or what he stands to lose if this issue is revealed.

He thinks of the king of England, luminescent eyes steeled with brute possessiveness. If there is one thing Wolsey taught him, it was how to read people like a book; and in the tome marked Henrius Rex he could read the craving for control, for dominion, the bounty of a reluctantly compliant body, as plainly as daylight.

Wolsey, however, did not teach him how to be truly desperate. No. Walter* taught him that.

He tries to sign a letter and blots it instead. His flourishes are shaky, like Gregory’s* when he first wrote, in childish, broken Latin.

His curses peter out as his eyes rest upon the fair day outside. The ground is dry, the leaves green and fresh. Somewhere in the park comes the bay of hounds, rounding in upon a trembling creature.

+++    

Henry wonders that there are people who dislike the sport of hunting. Sir Thomas More, God rest his soul, found it distasteful – “barbaric”.  But is it not nature to be barbaric? Seasons give way to each other without insurgency or protest. Flowers bloom to wilt; animals are born to die. Kings will rule, and peasants will serve, and women will give birth, men will age, and children will grow. There is a time and place for everyone: “ _A time to kill, and a time to heal_ ”, Ecclesiastes. There is no loss of honour, or God’s good graces, in obliging the natural order.

“Amen,” he says, under his breath. A gentleman looks at him quizzically, and he remembers it is not proper to pray outside of church. Not _yet_ , if Cromwell’s – _Cromwell hunts_ , his memory supplies. Henry toys with the idea of inviting the secretary to the party, savouring the image of high colour and flexing sinews, a falcon’s wing brushing against his face. But he decides to discard it after all; they will see enough of each other when the time comes. The paths of his mind brings him once more to the kiss, seared like a scorch-mark on fine wood.

Something stirs within him. He reminds himself, again, of the reasons for not pursuing the matter then and there. His need to utterly command the man, warring with the desire to see Cromwell present himself, like a wrapped gift on Christmas day. And if his reaction the night prior was any indication, he _will_ give himself up. Heavens, the man wants it almost as much as he does, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it to himself or anyone else. Try as he might, he cannot fool a king’s eyes.

His greyhounds bark in the distance; he points his horse in the direction and digs in his stirrups. The sky and the ground is a blur above and beneath him, the horse a powerful machination of speed and strength. The wind howls next to his ears, his heartbeat echoing the hooves’ heavy sound. His nostrils are filled with the scent of the stallion’s groomed mane, the trampled grass, the blossoms in the trees. Sunlight filters from between the sycamores and his entire being is filled with invincible, giddy delight.

The skies are clear; his game is close by; and to-night he shall have everything he desires.

+++

“Her Majesty requests your immediate audience,” the page says.

_She does, does she_ , he wants to snap. Well, I have six and twenty letters to draft by the evening, and if I do not secure this agreement by this day next month, her husband will have my head, and if I do not please him to-night, he shall have my head anyway. And she summons me to her rooms as if I have no more business than a gentry’s son living off his father’s generosity, and no greater pleasure than to entertain her woman’s vanities.

When Anne sees him approaching, she leans backward as if to swoon. Thomas supposes that any other gentleman may have been moved to aid her; but then again he is no gentleman, and he knows the Boleyns too well. Her ladies-in-waiting have her by the elbows and are ushering her to lean against some cushions; Mary Shelton whispers to him: Thank God, thank God, we thought you weren’t coming.

Thomas realises then that he was taken to be a sign; the Gabriel to the Virgin, the rainbow to Noah’s kin – perhaps not quite the Ark of the Covenant, he presumes, watching the room empty until it contains only him and her. 

Amongst the chaos of strewn garments, he has to concede the woman looks genuinely ill. Anne is in one of her second-best dresses, an apricot silk brocade. It washes out her already anaemic complexion. Her dark hair is coiffed and braided, threads of gold and pearl beads interwoven in her tresses.

He says, “Your Majesty looks greatly improved.”

She looks at him as if he had slurred something lewd at her, expression pinched, her lips pressed in a little frown.

Mon Dieu, if he had a coin every time Anne Boleyn gave him the evil eye, he could buy himself an estate and retire to Italy before the year is done.

“Flattery will do you no good, Mr. Cromwell. But I need you to accomplish something for me, a small task, and I shall consider it a great service both for me and on my father the Earl of Wiltshire’s behalf.”

_Yes, everyone knows who your father is_. He bows, expressionless, waiting for her elaboration.

Her fingers twist into her skirts. “Have you – have you noticed any great changes of mood with His Majesty of late?”

Is there a day when he _doesn’t_ have a great change of mood? “No more than usual, Your Majesty.”

“Tell me honestly now, Mr. Cromwell; my mind is ill at ease. I cannot rest well while I am uncertain if – if His Majesty has been entertaining any ladies of the court.”

Thomas stares at her for a moment. _She knows_ , a voice in his head whispers to him. But if she does, she is a singularly exceptional actress. Her eyes are wide and slightly wild, her lips chapped from the way she worries at them with her teeth, the very picture of a fretting wife whose husband has gone astray.

_Whatever the case_ , he tells himself, _he has not touched me yet._ _I have done nothing wrong_.

“My lady, I am not aware of – “

“ _Liar_ ,” she spits, “He is. I _know_ he is. I saw him riding out this morning. Did you know, he has a harem of fifteen women at the very outskirts of Hampton Court? I just – it must not – we cannot afford to lose his love.”

You mean, _you_ cannot afford to lose his love. You, who have only come so far with me at your side in every step, and now so quick to threaten my neck once the crown is on your head. He softens his expression somewhat, however, when she closes her eyes as if to ward off great weariness and irrepressible tears in one gesture.

“Your Majesty. I assure you, the king has been most disconsolate for your illness, and has only ventured out to relieve himself of his bad spirits by hunting.”

Anne gnaws at her lip, eyes shining. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely. I heard the hunting horn half an hour ago; Your Majesty knows my office is closest to the grounds. - Look, here comes his gentlemen even now, bearing his kill.”

Indeed, by a great stroke of fortune, Beresford enters to announce a gift of two pheasants and a boar’s hindquarters for Her Majesty and her ladies. His Majesty hopes they will do much to restore madam’s health, and he shall visit her soon in her chambers.

The Queen thanks His Majesty for his most gracious generosity, and shall look forwards greatly to his visit. Tell him Mr. Cromwell also sends his regards, Anne says, as if this were a great favour to him.

Thomas bows at her and at Beresford as the gift-bearers depart. He turns to follow them out the door, but Anne stops him with an insistent hand on the crook of his arm.

“Thomas. Please, watch His Majesty for me,” she says, fast and conspiratorial, “You must tell me if he has lain with another woman. I shall know if you do not. You recognize neither God nor England tolerate traitors.”

_I owe you nothing_ , he thinks, but he nods anyway, if only to keep her nails from digging any deeper into his arm.

He feels Anne’s stone-cold eyes at the back of his head, and is almost grateful for it.

His foot has scarcely crossed the threshold of his office when he spots the king’s groom, lounging carelessly, arrogantly against the desk; his cape half-rests on the wooden surface, spreading out in the shape of leathery wings.

“His Majesty awaits, Mr. Cromwell,” he says, with a gleam of teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*Tu quoque, Brute, fili mi: Latin for “You too, Brutus, my child?” – A precursor of the Shakespearean “Et tu, Brute?” Posited as Julius Caesar’s last words at the Ides of March, by Roman historian Suetonius, c. 69-122 A.D.
> 
> *Walter: i.e. Walter Cromwell, Thomas’ father, well-known drunkard entangled in numerous small-time civil disputes throughout his time.
> 
> *Gregory: i.e. Gregory Cromwell, Thomas’ only legitimate son.]
> 
> A/N: The smut comes in the next update... read on at your own discretion :)


	6. pas de deux

Henry is in his loose bedclothes, sipping warm spiced wine after his meal of roasted meats. Both mingle with the anticipation coursing through his veins, and prowling in its cage.

Where he had previously forced himself to turn his thoughts, he now allows to run freely, affirming that his desire has neither diminished nor dissipated from the wait – if anything, it has grown even harder to control or ignore. He wants to see the force of will that garnered a Pope’s surrender bend to his own. He wants to dispel the mask of propriety, to shatter that resolve, to see those blue eyes that had gleamed at him in challenge days ago now wide with emotion. To feel skin pull tight over straining muscles.

But something causes him disquiet still. He marvels at it, that Cromwell would only submit to him under threat. It could not be that he thinks the king a violent lover, or that he likes not his face – for his gentility is renown amongst the kingdoms, and the minister was, visibly, far from unmoved at their fateful supper.    

Why, then?

Finally the knock comes, and his secretary slips into the room in his undershirt and breeches, as if not scarcely a minute has passed from the night prior. His face is soft and blank, his hair a careless mess, his feet bare.

“Your Majesty,” Thomas whispers, sinking into a bow. The sight of the exposed nape and shoulders enflames him. He reaches out to straighten his servant.

“No more bowing, Thomas,” he says, “You will not bow again before the sun rises tomorrow.”

He nods, silent, eyes half mast. There is no more pretence now. They both know what they are here for; they both know what will take place in the room that night. Why wait any longer?

Henry moves his lips to form an order, but Thomas beats his words with actions, discarding his shirt and sitting down on the bed.

“Is this where you want me, my lord, or shall I shift otherwise?”

He almost laughs at the placid tone; Thomas might as well have just asked if he’d prefer sauce with his meat. He should have known better than expect discomfit in his secretary. And yet part of him is somehow disappointed. He had expected a fight, or at the very least some inexperience, without which there can be no game.

Thomas sits patiently on the sheets, his expression tight and closed. There must be something he could do to rouse shame in the man. His gaze finds its way to clothed thighs and groin. When he glances up, Thomas looks back, bold and curious, and he has to resist the urge to throw something – or rip him apart at the seams. Instead he strides forward, swearing to himself that he will prove the unmaking of the man before the night is through.

+++

The room is basked in the warm glow of a fire, the bed turned down. A wine-chalice sits carelessly upon a chess-table; he can smell nutmeg and cinnamon, and another fragrance he cannot place. The king is standing by the table. His eyes are glowing and feral, calculating the speed and distance at which to pounce at last upon its victim.

Thomas arranges his face so it betrays nothing, but his heart thunders so in his ears, he wonders that the king does not enquire about the sound.

Then again, a king never asks; he just takes.

Henry prowls towards the bed and kneels on it, compelling him to slide back to the middle of the bed, the feeling of his feet lifting off the ground conveying a sense of finality that makes him shudder. 

“Are you afraid, Thomas?” the king’s voice is soft. With some effort Thomas makes himself gaze at the other man’s face. “Be honest with me. I shall not think any less of you.”

“I fear nothing, Your Majesty, save your disappointment.”

“A fault you do not commit often,” the king says, smiling. “And I doubt there is very much you can disappoint me in this matter, as long as you submit to my lead. Will you, my faithful servant? Will you follow my lead always?”

Thomas stills, feeling his body swaying at the brink of a strange and dangerous place. It is too good, too gentle, too full of hope and feelings he cannot afford to harbour. The temptation is great, but this is a crux in his career; he must not treat this affair as anything but that; there is too much at stake.

Henry is observing his face intently. Cromwell is still considering how to place his answer, when tolerance snaps. “So be it,” the king snarls, the outline of his jaw hardening, “I will make things simple for you.”

The kiss is harsh and pressing and full of teeth, one hand grasping the back of his head, forcing it downwards into the kiss, the other harsh on his hip. For all it is wrong and illicit, he cannot help leaning into it, letting the king take what he wants, tasting wine and mint leaves. His body rouses to the slide of tongues and the rake of fingernails against his side. He writhes for more contact. As a response Henry brings a particularly cruel bite to the kiss. Thomas feels his lip split again – he’s lost count how many times since last week - and winces.

Henry laughs, victorious, and moves forward to taste the blood, the warm, wet flick of tongue making him gasp. When Henry begins to unfasten his breeches, however, he unconsciously moves a hand to stop it - a capital mistake, for the king senses it and pulls back to slap him. He cries out and falls against the sheets.

“What did you expect, someone of _your_ birth? Or did you want me to _woo_ you? To whisper sweet nothings in your ear: sweetheart, darling,” he sneers, pressing against him, hard and unforgiving - “Did you expect me to treat you like my women, folding you in my arms, writing you poetry, pelting you with pretty things?” 

“No, Your Majesty.”

“I should think not. Now, undress yourself. With your consent or none, you _will_ present yourself to me.”

His hands shake and cannot be cajoled into a semblance of calm. The knots, so simple and elegant in the morning, suddenly seem unsurmountable.

Henry’s hands twitch. A sign, he has learnt by experience, of a temper running short.

“Get out of my way. By the bleeding holes of Christ, do I have to do everything myself?” The laces of his breeches are yanked out of their eyelets so quickly the cords whip him on the abdomen; the hose, torn off unceremoniously with a rending noise. He is naked as the day he was born.

A hand travels on his thigh and he could almost feel the blood drain from his face. He closes his eyes and prays that it would not hurt too much; that if the king is hasty that at least let the ending of it also be hastened.   

+++

Thomas Cromwell is not a picture of loveliness. Or rather, loveliness would be the wrong word. His skin is not soft or white. His hair is raven-black in a splatter of curls against the stark sheets; he is slightly on the undesirable side of leanness; he has coarse hairs on his body, and also scars, later ones overlapping the older, pale white spider-webs interlacing and spanning over unexpected places: the crook of his elbow, the joint between his neck and shoulder, over both his forearms, a long, thin one across one palm, and a short, hard, gleaming one on the thigh. Henry cannot resist reaching out and touching it, and discovers an identical wound on the other side of the leg. They are the marks of a man who has known glory in many battles. He traces them with a fingertip, his rage slowly giving way to reverence.

His hands roam across the broad shoulders, down the flat shoulder-blades, smoothe across dark nipples and the plane of the abdomen; detouring to the taper of his waist to slide down firm thighs. He looks up to see the man beneath trembling, eyes closed. This does not please him. He needs the recognition, that it is he – Henry – who is asserting control; needs the unfailing attention of the hidden blue eyes when pleasure overtakes them both and breaks the bonds of his reserve.

Dropping a slow, lingering kiss on the scar, he discards his own bedclothes and moves to cover Thomas’ body with his own. A soft gasp escapes the secretary as skin drags on skin until they are face-to-face.

“Look at me,” he says. The other man stiffens at the order, muscles contracting like a board. Henry sighs. “Look at me, Thomas,” he repeats, more gently.

He finds his breath taken away by the look in those eyes – dark, possessed, totally lacking in their usual shrewdness, filled instead with uncertainty and hesitant desire. 

He leans forward to claim Thomas’ lips, pressing firmly for a moment before allowing their tongues to entwine. But something is missing - the other man lies impassive, only yielding but not giving. He pulls back.

“ _Kiss me_ ,” he whispers, “ _Like you mean it_.”

Thomas looks back, lips ruddy from exercise. He nods. Their lips meet again; but there are two in it this time, sucking, licking, gasping, until soon they are both out of breath. Thomas’ hands are cupping the back of his neck. He groans, presses light imprints of his lips on the man’s ears and neck while stroking his sides soothingly, gratified to hear his voice echoed with a deeper one.

Henry rocks experimentally against him, and is instantly rewarded with a shocked _ah_ that drives lust dagger-sharp into his gut.

+++

 _God have mercy_ , Cromwell thinks, as another rut pushes a current of desire though him. He is aware of his prick hardening under the other man’s weight, such that there is no chance of escaping the king’s notice. Henry, however, looks pleased at the response and proceeds to run a long digit down his torso, until it arrives at the site of arousal. His other hand reaches beside the bed and returns glistening with some fragrant substance. Thomas eyes it with some wariness.

“You may touch me,” the king says, thrusting a small jar in Thomas’ hands, and wraps his hand around the appendage, firm and ruthless, drawing a keen from his lips. His own hand finds the slick paste and the king’s parts, already stiff and fully ready for the thrust. Carefully he touches it.

Henry hisses, “Get on with it,” tightening his grip to make the secretary wince.

He mimics the king’s actions and folds his hand over the shaft. “Yes,” Henry says, lightly mocking, “Like thus.” And starts stroking at a torturous pace. 

It is slick, tight, hot: an alien sensation he had never dreamed of even when he had Elizabeth. His own hand in those frantic, guilt-ridden days of youth, paled completely in comparison, a gossamer memory in the wind hardly worth considering. His hips buck of their own accord; he only realises he is gritting his teeth by the grinding sound in his ears; a finger slides over the head, and he is undone -

It stops without warning. He only barely restrains the low sound of disappointment.

“The price of instruction, Mr. Cromwell,” Henry says next to his ear, the caress of breath making him shiver. A hand guides his relaxed one back to the king’s manhood. “After all, you are the expert in wealth from interests, are you not?”

He pulls at it feverishly, watching the king’s face minutely to guide his actions. Henry sighs, drops his head, eyelashes fluttering. He varies the pace, drawing his grip tighter, and the king inhales sharply, his jaw slackening every time he draws past the glans; until at last the king grits, “Stop.”

Thomas retracts his palm and waits for Henry to cease panting.

“That was well done, Mr. Secretary,” he says, rasping, “Now, turn on your stomach. I will show you how it is to be taken by a king.”


	7. coup de grace

The secretary shifts readily enough, though what he could see of his face is filled with trepidation. There are more scars on his back; fading lashes from what could have been a whip or a riding-crop, and a dark, smooth, concave oblong that looks as though it were branded with searing iron. Thomas is utterly still when he thumbs at the rim of it.

“What is this?”

“An accident,” the secretary answers, hesitant: “Backed into metal hung up to cool.”

_Ah, but what were you backing away from?_ The question sticks in his throat. He lets his hand roam instead to the firm muscles of the man’s buttocks, spreading them apart. Thomas squirms and buries his face into the sheets, ears reddening in a strangely endearing way, and something unexpected wrings at the sinews of his heart.

He has waited this long – longer that he has for any other white-faced youth – to see this man break. He thinks of the ghosts he has made: Edinburgh, Wolsey, More, Fisher. He is used to this: the broad strokes of the axe and sword; the kicking of legs three feet from the ground; the shade of a woman wasting in the arid country. He does not know what to make of this something, softer than respect and fuller, deeper than simple _j’aime_. It smothers and infuriates him against himself.   

“Thomas,” he says, and receiving no reply repeats more loudly, “Thomas. You must relax. Or this is going to hurt more than required.”

There is a pause before his secretary nods, the contours of his shoulders deflating minutely.

Henry reaches for the salve made for this purpose, and coats himself liberally, intending to introduce his dripping member to the furled entrance without further preparations. The sight of the tightly folded muscles, however, prompts him to test the resistance with a finger. It gives with almost none. The interior walls of muscles clamp down, as if loath to part with the intrusion, and Thomas whimpers and stills.

He moves his digit carefully. Thomas sighs and cants his hips backward.

“That is only a finger, you know,” he says, unable to keep amusement from his voice. The other man pauses in his writhing, groaning and panting for breath.

And he sinks deep to the hilt without further warning.

+++

He is terrified. He is terrified because he no longer controls his body, and he no longer knows his own mind. But Henry is of course oblivious to his thoughts.

The first intrusion is excruciating, not in unbearable pain but in burning intensity, reminiscent of the feeling of pressure on the weak points of a man’s joints. A finger is nothing compared to being spread open slowly but relentlessly, pinned to the spot helplessly; the sensation makes his cock fill and drip onto the sheet below, and his throat constrict in a strangled cry.

He can feel himself stretching to accommodate the king, can feel slick unyielding passion forging a way in a secret part of him. He bites his cheek to stop the moans and gasps from sliding past his lips, until the king forces past a certain point he didn’t even know he had – and it _does_ hurt, in a deep, aching way that makes his body fold in upon itself.

He hears the king hushing him and feels him leaving his body. He shudders. It is like the pith is being dragged out of him, leaving a fiery trail of pain and pleasure entwined – and now Henry returns, filling him again, even slicker than before, and his body – oh traitorous flesh – is beginning to heat and convulse around the cock inside. It welcomes the feeling of being touched where no man has touched before, the pressure against the inside walls driving wave after wave of shock and pleasure racking through his nerves. _No, no, no. Yes_.

Henry circles his hips and he lets out a stuttering cry. He can feel it, every inch, seated deep in his being, discovering places that make his senses go wild and his mind go blank. He wants to draw away. He wants to push back. He wants –

Is someone crying?

It turns out the groaning sobs are his own. The king is pushing his fingers through Thomas’ hair in a placating gesture: a dichotomy of intent against the torture on his lower half. A hand guides his head to turn to meet the king’s eyes; his expression is tender; how curious. Their lips collide. He sucks on the lower lip brought to his attention, and Henry hums, moulding their skin together, increasing his pace. And with the slight change of position, Thomas almost falls on his face in the pleasure that burns like wildfire. 

The king is laughing, wondrous, “I believe we have found the point of this exercise, Mr. Cromwell.” Emphasized with another well-aimed thrust, which makes the corners of his vision fade to white.

+++

Thomas’ body is tight, so tight, it is almost like creating a passage where there was none before. He steels himself against his own completion and drives forward again, and again, the sounds uttered through the legate’s lips spurring him on, their bodies coming together in sweat-slicked slaps and wet, lewd noises from where they are joined. He moderates his pistoning to shallow thrusts, and runs his fingers through the man’s hair, pulling his head backwards until his body forms a perfect arc, muscles as taut as a bow, and bites down on the throat vibrating with half-coherent pleas. When he looks down, he could see the teeth marks and a juvenile bruise, upon which he licks and sucks, then switches sadistically back to a bone-deep plunge.

The resultant scream could probably be heard on the other side of the Thames. Part of him is astonished; he would never have taken Thomas to be a vocal lover – but the feral creature within him howls in triumph.

He feels the man beneath him still and reaches around to squeeze down, hard, on the erection. Thomas begs, hot and pliant, but Henry is the master of them both.

He exits Thomas’ plundered body, paying no heed to his weak protests, and flips him over; his limbs are as limp as a straw-stuffed doll’s, which does not make it easy when he hoists the man’s leg over a shoulder. But he presses in again, and nothing else matters but the approaching crest of pleasure, and the cries of the man beneath him.

Thomas. Thomas Cromwell, his eyes wide and black with lust, mouth slack, sighs and groans escaping them; his eyes are upon him, only him, and he growls as he nears the end, “Mine.”

The man looks at him through his eyelashes.

“Yes.”

It leaves an ache in his heart, the imprint of a foot or paw on wet soil. Though the earth recovers, no grain of sand shifted will ever be truly the same. Strangely, it compels coincident urges to both weep and possess. He shudders, going in for the final kill.

+++

Thomas’ body clings to the shaft as it fucks unspeakably deep into him. He can no longer formulate cohesive thoughts, a surprisingly blissful state away from the harried nights when problems plague his mind until the first stirrings of the household. He could only accept everything that is given to him, and feel the waves of pleasure crest and recede, his limbs splayed. He allows his voice to carry, too tired to fight himself any longer. This is his surrender, his treaty, conditional upon time. Yes, you want it, take it all, what else have I to lose?

Yes. Words, words, just words.

He sees the king lit sideways by the embers, red and gold with shadows of purple-black. He says, “Yes, let me see it. Let me see you break.”

There is a hole where the words collide with his body, just under the heart; the syllables twine into a line of flexible glass. It hooks into him and wraps around his lungs, his heart – the other end is joined with the king. Thomas tests it gingerly, blearily: it is one of those wounds that do not hurt until you think about it.

His cries out voraciously, eyes wide, when slick fingers find his abused entrance and _twists_ in along with the thrusting member. His release is brutal, swift; the muscles of his abdomen cramp painfully.

And the king simply rocks him through it, making winded noises like a wounded animal, on and on, and Thomas comes again, and again, until he is sure he is empty and begs to come no more. He is sobbing openly now; his passage is sore and dry. In the madness of the moment he is sure the torment would never end.

Henry’s hands cover his own and bring them to his still-moving hips. Realization dawns. He reaches, crooks an arm, and with just a tip of a finger, enters the king’s own body. Henry gasps, thrusts stuttering, and with a long groan relinquishes his seed inside of him.

Thomas shifts uncomfortably at the unfamiliar sensation, faint with relief and exhaustion.

Henry presses his lips against his forehead. “Sleep.”

Never was there a command more gladly and swiftly obeyed.

+++

Dawn comes, a merry and presumptuous herald in the royal bedchamber. The sun waits for no-one, not even newly made men, one fully-dressed Thomas Cromwell and one sleeping monarch.

The fire is dying at the hearth, glowing embers crackling every now and then like distant fireworks. There is a package on the mantel, addressed to him, Thomas.

He turns it over in his hands, the brown paper crackling. Glancing at the bed, he finds the king still sleeping sprawled on his front, the rise and fall of his shoulder-blades an uncanny rhythm of their copulation. Thomas’ cheeks heat at the memory of it; he is unsure if he wants to remember.   

After all, what is sentiment, what is affection, what is love? Foolishness; a spoken or unspoken contract, less corporeal and binding than a marriage, of which often one or the other side cannot keep the terms.

Take this case: Thomas Wyatt, a poet; in the snare of one Anne Boleyn. He makes verses for her, and affects the demeanor of one stewing in agony and melancholy by the hour. He looks at the stranger with red-rimmed eyes and says, broken _, I love her, so I let her go_ ; what does he mean of it? That she quickens his blood, that she has captured his sight and possessed his mind, so that her being seems linked with his being, so that her suffering would be his suffering.

To her, his love serves to bolster her conceit. His love is words, and looks, and touches, disjointed from feeling. When she goes to bed at night, she thinks of no-one but herself, her little feet warming under the covers, lavish fabrics pressing against her breasts. To her the heart is but an organ, one that can be swapped for another.

When Thomas Wyatt goes to bed, he weeps a little, and prays for her, and rolls feverishly in the wisps of doggerel that float to his consciousness, wrapping words around the image of Anne he has conjured like a translucent icon. His wife lies beside him, pretending to be asleep, until the next day when she accidentally burns his shirts under the iron. 

People say that Thomas Wyatt has had a locket commissioned from some obscure artist, one that will likely never see even the outer walls of the king’s court. They say it contains the miniature of Anne, or a silhouette of her shadow, and he takes it out daily to sigh over it.

Cromwell has never seen such a locket himself, though he thinks, wherever could Liz’s locket be now? He has not laid eyes on it since he began coming to court. Perhaps it is still in Austin Friars*; perhaps not. He imagines locating it someday and putting in it, together with the image of the ghost of his wife, the ghost of this state; somehow, impossibly, reconciling the two. And he would keep it next to his breast, a token of those fleeting moments where he glimpsed the high fantastical. It would tap against him when he walks and rides: a counterpoint; a warning; a pendulum against which sway to measure the passage of life; a cadenza of madness trapped in time.

Turning the parcel over in his hands, his fingers hesitate at the knot before picking it apart. The paper falls open, and something soft tumbles onto the carpet. There is red and brown fur beneath his touch, lush, expensive, and completely inappropriate.

He wonders vaguely whether the creature had been blessed with a quick death, or whether, chased down and tormented by hounds, Henry dismounted at last and caved its skull personally. He heart stops for a second at the image of the king bearing down, the sun behind his head. The club in hand, swinging by his side. The creature will whimper and scramble to a side, trying to hide behind bushes, despite a lame leg or two.

And Henry – he would look at it, heartless, until its limbs cease twitching, and in a sudden stroke of compassion he would understand, he would regret, he would say to his grooms _‘tis a pity she had to die thus_.

And then he would say _skin it, I want her pelt_.

Then again, foxes are best loved after they are slaughtered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [* Austin Friars: Thomas Cromwell’s London residence.]


	8. Epilogue: trompe l'oeil

Letter from Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, to His Majesty Henrius Rex VIII, on the subject of the execution of Earl of Exeter, Lord Privy Seal Thomas Cromwell, 14 June 1540. (Excerpt)*

“... I heard yesterday in your Grace's Council, that he [Cromwell] is a traitor, yet who cannot be sorrowful and amazed that he should be a traitor against your Majesty, he that was so advanced by your Majesty; he whose surety was only by your Majesty; he who loved your Majesty, as I ever thought, no less than God; he who studied always to set forwards whatsoever was your Majesty's will and pleasure; he that cared for no man's displeasure to serve your Majesty; he that was such a servant in my judgment, in wisdom, diligence, faithfulness, and experience, as no prince in this realm ever had; he that was so vigilant to preserve your Majesty from all treasons, that few could be so secretly conceived, but he detected the same in the beginning?

... I loved him as my friend, for so I took him to be; but I chiefly loved him for the love which I thought I saw him bear ever towards your Grace, singularly above all other...

Yet again I am very sorrowful; for who shall your Grace trust hereafter, if you might not trust him? Alas! I bewail and lament your Grace's chance herein, I wot not whom your Grace may trust. But I pray God continually night and day, to send such a counsellor in his place whom your Grace may trust, and who for all his qualities can and will serve your Grace like to him, and that will have so much solicitude and care to preserve your Grace from all dangers as I ever thought he had.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*This is an actual letter extracted from historical records, which I have quoted for my own purpose.] 
> 
>  
> 
> [After-notes:  
> Holy cheeseballs, this is finally done!! Writing this fic has been a completely transformative journey (for one, I have never written anything close to this long), though I know it is far from flawless, so if you have stuck with me to the bitter end, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Comments and kudos are always most appreciated <3
> 
> At last, I would just like to say a very Happy Birthday to epistolic, and thank-you for introducing me to such a fascinating era. I hope you have an absolutely smashing twenty-first.]
> 
>  
> 
> Gratuitous title translations - I didn't want to post these before in case I gave away the plot:  
> "La Chasse", of course, means "The Hunt".  
> 1\. Fait accompli: a destination or result determined before you knew of its existence  
> 2\. Cri du Coeur: a cry of devastation  
> 3\. Cause celebre: an incident causing controversy and debate  
> 4\. Noblesse oblige: obligations of those with noble blood; e.g. checking oneself’s conduct, making sure you’re acting in accordance to your position  
> 5\. Cherchons la femme: “look for the woman” – implying that a woman is behind all the trouble  
> 6\. Pas de deux: a dance with two people  
> 7\. Coup de grace: an act (i.e. the killing blow) of mercy  
> 8\. Trompe l’oeil: a visual trick used to make a piece of art seem to live outside of its media


End file.
